


A Penny for a Spool of Thread

by bottledspirits



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 10:54:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottledspirits/pseuds/bottledspirits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumors can be terrible things, but there’s one girl who never seems to listen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Penny for a Spool of Thread

The spinner who lived on the edge of town was a reclusive man. Rumor had it that he had been married years ago. No one knew what had become of the lady. Some said she was dead; others said she had left him. Some said it was both, that she had fled his house only to meet a grisly fate later on in the next town.

So it was that few people would go near the man, and it was a rare soul who approached his house. It was a desolate place, gray stones and dead vines. There were no trees. Even the forest seemed to shy away. No grass grew in the yard, nor weeds or garden plants. It was as if all life had been plucked away again and again until nothing dared to poke its way through the hard-packed soil.

Isabelle often wondered how he could have lived here so long by himself. Surely it must be lonely. She could imagine how the wind must have howled at night, how the dry old vines must have scratched against the sides of the house like the claws of a beast trying to find entry. It would have been enough to drive her mad.

People said he crazy. She was never sure what to make of that.

Here, where no other houses stood, where the dark forest cast its shadows like long, creeping fingers over the earth, this man lived. He hardly ever left. She often saw him by the window as she passed. He was always spinning, turning the heavy wheel with slow movements and drawing the threads with long, deft fingers. The ease with which he treated the fibers made it look so simple, though Isabelle knew it could not be. She had tried it herself once, at a friend’s house in town, and the effort had simply defeated her. She admired his patience for doing it all day.

He was a passive man. Isabelle had never seen him do harm to another living creature, never heard him speak a cross word. He simply sat by that window, spinning and spinning, with such a look in his eyes that she wondered if he was thinking about something far away.

And people called him mad.

To her, he looked sad.

She stood by the gate to his yard. It was made of the same stone as the house. Isabelle ran a hand idly over the rock. It was smooth and pale; probably river stone. She rather liked the feel and look of it. It was evident that someone had spent a lot of time in arranging each stone, for they fit together perfectly. Perhaps the color was a bit dull, but it simply needed something to liven it up. Some shrubs, or maybe a few flowers. But she doubted the spinner had time for gardening.

She pushed the gate open and walked up the path, watching the window as she moved. He did not see her yet, but he would. Whether he heard her step or saw her in the corner of his eye, she did not know, but the man had impeccable sense for when someone was drawing close.

In true form, his head snapped up as soon as she was halfway to the house. Their eyes locked and Isabelle paused, momentarily frozen by the power of his gaze. He had such a sharp look in his eyes that she wondered if she had startled him. But then he looked away, steadying the wheel with one hand and rising from his seat. She did not see his face again as he moved from the window.

There came a clatter from inside the house as he moved about. Isabelle had often tried to imagine him going about his daily tasks in the house, but the only thing she could picture was the spinner. Were all his movements as careful as those at the wheel?

Her boots scraped lightly on the step. For a moment she stood, drinking in the air the place. It was cold, even for an autumn day, and there was a chill that she had not felt earlier, even as she stood by the gate.

What was it about this house that so excited her? Was it the hint of a mystery, the pull of an untold story?

She remembered the eyes that had been fixed on her. Their color, their expression; she had felt powerless under that gaze, unable to so much as move while he looked at her. Something in those eyes haunted her.

Isabelle shivered.

No, it was not the house that interested her.

She reached out and rapped lightly on the door. It was quiet enough that most would not have heard, unless they were paying very close attention. Isabelle had no doubt he was.

—

She came every week at the same time, yet she always took him by surprise. The girl moved like a ghost.

He didn’t know why she kept coming back. It must have been quite the trek from the village. She came just before sunset every Saturday and bought a spool of thread. When he asked why she would venture so far for such a thing, she simply smiled.

“Your thread is finer than any they sell in town,” she said.

She was tiny and pretty, like a porcelain doll. Her eyes were full of kindness, her face wreathed in smiles, and she never had a harsh word to say to him. He wasn’t sure what to make of her.

He opened the door to his guest. She stood on his threshold, a basket under one arm. Her cloak was made of fabric of the richest hue, the dress underneath edged in delicate embroidery and lace, and he could see a glimmer of gold around her throat. This was no pauper’s daughter. Her father must have been one of the prominent merchants in town, at the very least.

And yet she walked all this way by herself to buy a spool of thread.

“Good evening, miss,” the spinner said. He stood half behind the door, one hand grasping the handle while the other held so tightly to his walking stick that his knuckles had turned white. “What can I do for you today?”

The girl dropped a curtsy. She looked such a picture, too, that he was forced to draw his eyes upward toward her face before they wandered down over her exquisite frame.

“Good evening, sir,” she replied. He stared at her lips for but a moment. Cherry red and drawn into the friendliest of smiles. “I’ve come to buy some of your thread.”

“Come in, then,” the man said, pulling the door open and standing aside to grant her entrance. He never allowed strangers into his house, but after their third encounter he had begun to feel a tug of guilt for forcing this little creature to stand outside during their transactions.

All the same, he was embarrassed by his humble surroundings. The fire was high, luckily enough. He kept his floors swept, though there were quantities of dust on any surface that did not see frequent use, and there was such disarray to the objects in the room that it was evident this was a bachelor’s abode. He always meant to tidy up before her next visit, and he always got so caught up in his work that he forgot.

But the girl never spoke a word against the place. She looked around admiringly, as if she liked the look of the place, and did not stare so long as to be impolite.

He led her to the chair by the fire. A table stood nearby. It was small enough that only two people could sit there comfortably, yet it was the only one in the house. The girl sat down gracefully, allowing him to take her cloak and place it beside her basket on the table.

“Thank you,” she said. Their eyes met briefly, and she looked at him so intently that had he held anything in his hands at that moment, he would have dropped it. He felt his face twitch.

“No matter,” he said quickly, glancing away. But he couldn’t very well speak to her while staring at his shoes, and he looked at her again, this time setting his eyes on her nose. That was a safe place.

He flexed his hands idly before bringing them together to stop their movement.

“Now, ah…what can I get for you, my dear?” the spinner asked. He immediately regretted it. How could he say ‘my dear’ to a girl so much younger than himself? He must have looked an absolute lech.

The girl didn’t seem to notice. She gave a little huff of laughter and looked up at him, her eyes sparkling.

“Well, I…” she began, her face crinkling into a smile.

Then he remembered what she had come for. What she always came for. What she had ruddy well said she’d come for not two minutes earlier, when she’d stood on his doorstep.

“Ah!” the spinner said suddenly. He turned away, his face red. “Yes, thread. You said. I remember, now.”

He saw the girl nod out of the corner of his eye.

“That’s right,” she said. Always patient, this girl. Always kind to an old, hobbling spinner.

He knew what people said of him.  At first, he had thought she was there to stare at him. That was why he had not let her into his house on their first encounter. But she had only asked to see his thread, and when he had shown his wares, she had paid more than a fair price. He had tried to object, but she had been obstinate, insisting that such fine work should be rewarded. He had not known what to make of her then.

For that matter, he didn’t know what to make of her now, either.

The spinner went to a small cupboard by the wheel and leaned his walking stick against the wall. The door of the cupboard opened with a creak. His fingers danced as he moved his hands down the narrow rows of tightly-wound thread.

There was an assortment of colors; as many as a poor craftsman could afford to make with his limited resources. For himself, his eyes were always drawn to the shades of red and gold. They almost glimmered in the light of the fireplace.

His hand hesitated before the spools. He hadn’t asked what color she wanted.

“What sort of–” the man began, turning his head to speak over his shoulder.

To his astonishment, the girl was there, looking at the spools of thread. His heart gave a stutter. He had not heard her move. She was so close they were almost touching; he could feel the heat of her body as he stared at her, as alarmed by her proximity as he was pleased by it.

“Oh, how pretty!” the girl exclaimed. He practically dodged out of the way as she reached toward the cupboard. Her hand stopped just before she touched the nearest glittering spool.

She looked at him, her eyes uncertain.

“May I?” she asked.

He nodded wordlessly. Not that he could have denied her any request.

She turned back to the cupboard, her hair shifting as she moved, and he caught a scent that must have been her perfume. He resisted the urge to lean forward to breathe it in. In fact, he leaned away entirely, setting his jaw so he would not be tempted to say something he would regret. Again. She was so close, so helpless, and he had to clench his fists tight to stop himself from touching her.

He watched as her elegant little fingers stopped on a spool of dark yellow thread and lifted it from the shelf. She took one end of the thread between two fingers and delicately unwound it round the spool. Then, ever so delicately, she drew the thread taut and held it up to the light.

“I’ll never know how you get it so fine,” she said in a slightly awestruck voice.

His breath caught at that. What was this girl, that she could dispense kindness so easily to a miserable creature such as him?

“It’s…it’s nothing,” the spinner said shyly, looking away to stare at some of the other spools in the cupboard.

He felt her eyes on his face.

“It’s more than that,” she said, continuing to look at him even as he purposefully avoided her gaze. When he did not answer, she went on, “I’ve seen others at the wheel. It takes a great deal of concentration.”

He heard her make a soft noise, as if embarrassed.

“I even tried it myself, once. All I did was make a mess. I guess hands like mine aren’t suited to the task,” she admitted shyly.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her playing with the loose end of the thread as she spoke. Indeed, her hands were tiny. That is, they certainly were when compared to his.

She tried to catch the end of the thread to wrap it around the spool again. Her fingers missed, and she seemed rather flustered; whether over the thread or her own admission, he did not know.

He turned to her and grasped the fluttering end of the spool in one deft motion. He could feel her watching him, but he paid it no mind as he gently took the spool and secured the thread so it would not stray again.

Their fingers brushed lightly as he did. He tried not to think about her soft skin on his calloused hands, but he could not help but take note of how warm her hands were.

“Perhaps,” he said, in a tone that was not quite his own, “hands like yours are more suited to other tasks. You may not make the thread, but perhaps hands like yours are better for using it.”

He placed the spool back in her hands as he spoke, taking great care as he wrapped her own fingers around it.

“This is the one you like?” he asked, looking straight down into her eyes for the first time since she had entered his house.

“Yes,” she replied. She sounded out of breath, and was staring back at him in a way that no one ever had before.

“Good,” he said. He stepped away, breaking the contact as he turned to take up his walking stick again. “That’ll be one copper,” he added, his tone light and detached, as if this was only a business transaction. Which it was, he reminded himself. She was only here for thread.

“I don’t have one copper,” she said.

There was something in her tone that made him look up suspiciously. She was holding a small yellow coin up so he could see and regarding him with a stubborn expression, as if daring him to argue.

“I don’t have change,” he reminded her, as he did every time.

“Then you’ll just have to hold on to it for me,” she replied, as she always did.

He gave her a miffed look, for it was the closest thing he could get to sternness. She stared right back.

Finally he gave a huff and held his hand out. She smiled triumphantly and placed the coin in his palm. Was it his imagination, or did her fingers linger a moment longer than necessary, pressed against his palm in the lightest of touches? He could not tell. He would not make such assumptions.

“Another happy purchase,” she said merrily as she pulled away, holding the yellow thread like it was some treasure.

“Satisfaction guaranteed,” he said under his breath, hoping she would not hear, but from the look on her face and the little chuckle she gave him, he knew she had heard. His features lifted in the briefest of smiles.

She went to her basket and tucked the thread under a cloth that covered the rest of the contents.

“I have…” she began, but she trailed off as if she did not know how to continue.

He looked at her quizzically. In all the time the spinner had known the girl, it was not like her to be shy or anxious. Except today, it seemed.

“Yes?” he said, as gently as he could manage. It was like speaking to a startled doe.

She looked up at that, and her face flickered in a nervous smile.

“I have something for you. That is…if you don’t mind?” she asked hesitantly. Her hand was out of sight beneath the cloth of the basket, and she watched him as if she expected him to go into a towering rage at any second. What did she think he would do, strike her and cast her from the house? He would no more harm a hair on her head than he would cut off one of his own hands.

“What is it?” he asked.

She smiled, letting out a breath of relief before she looked away to rummage in the basket. He could not help peering over her shoulder in his curiosity.

“It’s not much, just something I…well, see for yourself, I suppose,” she said.

To his surprise, it was a present. It was a square package, wrapped in plain brown paper with a bit of red ribbon tied around to keep it closed. She held it out to him. He hesitated, but seeing her expression passing from hope, fear, and back again, he could not help but take her offering.

“I didn’t know what to use, so I sort of…” the girl trailed off and took a sudden interest in her hands.

“T-thank you,” he stammered, his eyes glued to the mysterious package. He dared not look at her face.

As he fumbled with the ribbon, she let out a squeal, and he looked up, startled. The girl’s face had gone a bright shade of red.

“Oh, don’t mind m…I’ll just…thank you very much!” she spoke in a rush.

Before he could say a word, the girl had dropped another curtsy and was out the door, her cloak and basket in hand. He winced as the door slammed behind her. Was it something he said?

He watched the door a moment longer, wondering if she would come back and explain, but he heard no sign on her. Reluctantly, he tore his eyes from the last place he’d seen her and went back to the parcel in his hands.

Whatever it contained was soft. With great care he loosened the ribbon – one of her own hair ribbons, if he was any judge – and separated the paper from what was inside. What he saw made him freeze where he stood.

Inside the nest of brown paper were six dove-white handkerchiefs. Each was folded in such a way as to reveal the embroidery around the edges. The stitches were so neat they were almost invisible. The scrollwork was lovely, but it was the symbol in the corner of each of the little white squares that caught his attention the most.

On each handkerchief she had stitched a golden spinning wheel. Around it, threads of all different colors fanned out as if they had come to life of their own accord. He drew his thumb over the needlework, marveling at it.

The package shifted as he moved. The spinner heard a rustle and looked down to find a piece of paper on the floor. He picked it up with care; it was a square of cream-colored paper, like that of a young woman’s stationery. Written on it in a light, slanting scroll, were the words:

_In all our visits together, I have not thought to ask your name. I only realized when I found I had no idea what initials to use for my gift to you. I hope you won’t mind what I used instead. I have heard your name spoken in the village, but I wanted to learn it from you. My name is Isabelle, by the way. I always mean to tell you and I always forget. So I thought I’d put it here just in case. I look forward to our next meeting. Perhaps I’ll get to hear you say my name for the first time?_

_Your Friend,_

_Belle_

The spinner stared at the note for a moment before he remembered himself. Giving his head a shake, he went to the table and sat down where the girl had been not ten minutes earlier. He set the package on the table and looked at the contents as if they were a great puzzle to him.

Finally, he looked at the note again. His brow furrowed as he read it again. As he reached the last few words, his lips moved, like he was willing himself to form the words for himself.

With a great effort he looked at the final word on the note. He took a breath.

“Belle,” he whispered.

He sat for a while as if under a spell. Then, with a sigh, he stood and took the handkerchiefs from their wrappings. He took them, as well as the note, to a small wooden box on the mantelpiece. It was dusty from disuse, but he wiped it with his sleeve and opened the latch.

The inside smelled of linseed oil and cedar. The spinner placed the snowy white squares in the box and shut the lid as one might drop a leaf on the water.

He did not have many fine things in his house. Everything had been worn with time until it was all the same dull, dusty shade of yellow or brown. Even the great wheel by the window had been smoothed by use. The only bright colors in his house were on the spools of thread he spun at the wheel.

There was a raised design of leaves and vines on the box. He ran his fingers over them absently. This box was probably the oldest thing he owned, and now it contained the most precious thing in his house.

Suddenly conscious of the amount of dust on the mantle, the spinner brushed some of it away with his hand, all while staring at the box. He meant to go back to his work at the wheel, but he couldn’t help opening the box once more to peek at what was inside.

The note sat on top. He could imagine the girl sitting at her desk, writing it, her lithe fingers wrapped around the quill, her face drawn in concentration. Or perhaps her face was serene as she wrote. He could not know.

Then he imagined what she must have looked like when she embroidered each of the white squares. But again, he could not picture it. All he could see was her face, looking at him shyly. He could feel the way her fingers had touched his, warm and strong for all they were so thin and white.

Why did he think of these things? It would do him no good. It would only serve as a distraction.

He shut the box again and went back to his wheel. The cupboard of thread was still open. He reached over and closed it with a snap.

_This is the one you like?_

_Yes._

The words came to his mind suddenly, and he shook them away. It would do no good to think of it, he reminded himself.

He reached out and set the wheel in motion. He began to spin in earnest, taking comfort in drawing out the thread. It was a dull, off-white color at the moment. Absently, he wondered what he would dye it later.

Gold. She liked gold. He could remember the strand of gold around her throat, the way she held his thread up to the light. It had glittered, just as her eyes had when she had smiled. Her eyes. Blue. Maybe he would make the thread blue.

He blinked and tried to think of something else.

_Your Friend,_

_Belle._

He sighed. That’s what he would think of. She was his friend. His cheerful little friend, as long as she wanted to be. He couldn’t imagine why she would want him, but she would have him, nonetheless, if that’s what she wanted.

_Your Friend…_

“Belle,” he said, so lost in his spinning that he didn’t realize he’d spoken. 


End file.
